tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24181695540348664302024-03-18T12:28:59.269-07:00I Will Pay £1.00 For Your StoryAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-55340632361349044062016-04-05T07:59:00.002-07:002016-04-05T07:59:32.040-07:00Heartbreak Admin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today I received my decree absolute. I've never been married, this was the millennial's version; an email confirming that the deposit I'd paid on the flat I'd shared with my ex-partner of six years had been refunded.</div>
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The relationship ended seven months ago when I packed a rucksack and spent three weeks sobbing on friends' sofas before finding a tiny box room five minutes away from my (our) lovely little flat. A lot's happened since then. Life has gone on. But this notification, this cold scrap of legal data, served as a reminder that something has shifted. I've changed something. I've failed at something. I've lost something I'll never have again. A sixth of my life is gone and won't ever come back.</div>
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There was so much guilt, so much doubt, so much anger and self-loathing. There was some little relief, too, streaking through the tumult like angel rays. But aside from the grief – the terrible, corrosive grief that contaminated every aspect of every day and left me reeling (ever stuck your head in a fridge at work to hide a fresh batch of tears from your colleagues? Hello!), there was a nauseating amount of admin involved. Separating our belongings, working out how to get to work from my mate's place on the night bus, changing my address on bills and statements (this particularly tedious bit of ball-achery took me six months to complete). There was a steep cost too – removal vans to hire, greater commuting costs, a deposit and a month's rent in advance on my new place, as well as a month's final rent on my former home. It was dizzying and frightening and now I know, now I know why people stay in unhappy relationships and marriages. I've never been more grateful that I don't have children – I can't imagine doing all that whilst caring for a scared, confused and very sad small human. I myself felt scared, confused, sad and small - I called my parents constantly, unable to make the smallest decision without consulting them. My regression was met with infinite patience and relentless love. </div>
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The deposit was the final thread connecting me to my ex – the refund signifies that he has now moved out of our home. We're not on speaking terms. That's not my decision, but one I respect. During our relationship my anxiety disorder manifested itself in worrying about him. Was he eating properly? Did he get to work safely? What if he got mugged on the way home? He worked in Camden, and during our relationship there was freak accident and a man was killed by a falling shop sign. I obsessed about it for weeks. During that time he sent me frequent texts to soothe and reassure me that he was alright. When the relationship ended my anxiety flared up like psoriasis but I had no outlet. I couldn’t ask him if he was alright because I knew that he wasn't. I knew he wasn't alright, and I knew that I was the reason he wasn't alright and I felt sick with guilt because I still loved him. I'd broken his heart but he was my best friend and I still loved him so much. My friends and family carried me through those frightful few weeks. They spoke soothing words and rubbed my back when I had panic attacks in the pub, after a couple of drinks unbridled the hurly-burly in my head. They didn't flinch when I sobbed and slobbered snot all over them like a deranged St. Bernard. They protected me when I was hurt, and they prevented me from hurting myself. I'm so, so grateful for their love. It saved me. And when I had zero self-esteem and such a low, low opinion of myself, knowing that I was loved by such wonderful people validated me, it made me realise I couldn't be a totally hopeless case.</div>
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I was very sad when my relationship ended. Sad, but not depressed. I didn't feel debilitated by sadness – it was imbued with relief that it was over, that we were both free to pursue what we really wanted from life. The truth is, I was a Bad Girlfriend. And I feel as though I'm unlikely to ever be a Good one. It seems to me that every relationship reaches a point where you have to choose between your partner, or yourself. And I choose myself.</div>
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It took a long time to acclimatise to my new (single) condition. My husband (we were never married, but I always called him that, even at the very beginning) was my compass, now I was adrift and I couldn't tell dry land from stormy sea. I started smoking again. Our relationship, my life's anchor, had been re-examined and reclassified and there's so much more to that than no longer sharing a roof. It's a rending of the soul. It hurts. It hurts. And to paraphrase a far greater Thomas than I, I did not go gentle. I raged, I raged against the dying of that light. The dying of that love. In the end I was exhausted from raging, from loving so much. I was so lonely. I was so lost, and I had lost so much. And it was time to leave.</div>
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It's been seven months now. The last three months have been an unexpectedly exciting, galvanising and fulfilling time, which wouldn't have happened were I still in that relationship (I can heartily recommend going viral as a displacement strategy if you want your mind taken off utter emotional devastation for a few months). It still makes me sad that I've lost my best friend, but I have more perspective now. I know, I've always known, that it was the right thing to do. The rest just takes time.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.8571px;">I still miss him, and the life we had together. Every time I have to catch a train, I have to walk past our old home. His car isn't parked outside any more, and there are new curtains and shiny new furniture in the back room (of course I still look, every time). Every time I pass, there's a faint but very distinct stagger in my belly. It's like walking into what Scots call a “thin place”, a place where there's a thin line dividing this world and the next. A haunted place. This place is a thin line dividing this world and one where we're still together, between the present and the past. It's a physical sensation – somewhere between lurch of vertigo and that shudder which prompts you to say “ooh, someone's just walked over my grave”. I always look. And I always feel it. But then I catch my train in my new present. In my new place. In my new world. It just takes time.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-32358183442531118952016-04-05T07:56:00.000-07:002016-04-05T07:56:01.474-07:00My Body: A Chronology <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_BttbsXSylTU5FLCRZS0IDrnxYYktqvU2b3hSOQZql5scZLXIdC4nNZr-8FDK9h6NJuXx2MbxemICC9lDgN3yDSqBsF8vv5DVeC5pVclK64iznjsMLzJaEpABC5N3eC0Uz0onRRTZW80j/s1600/FullSizeRender%255B2%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_BttbsXSylTU5FLCRZS0IDrnxYYktqvU2b3hSOQZql5scZLXIdC4nNZr-8FDK9h6NJuXx2MbxemICC9lDgN3yDSqBsF8vv5DVeC5pVclK64iznjsMLzJaEpABC5N3eC0Uz0onRRTZW80j/s400/FullSizeRender%255B2%255D.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 600; line-height: 22.8571px;">1994.</span></div>
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My school report says “Michelle is eight years old going on forty”. I'm a ponderous, cautious, old-headed kid who doesn't mix well with others my age. I live entirely in my own brain, in books, in stories. I've no interest in the kinetic world – I want to move as little as possible. I really want one of those reclining beds for old people that I've seen in adverts. I quite like the idea of being an invalid. Having a body seems like a very tedious bit of life admin. I discover that I'm fat when I'm nine years old. I am informed of the fact by a girl in my year:</div>
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“Michelle, I'd be lying if I said you weren't fat”.</div>
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It's so unfair. I don't like having a body. Other people don't like my having a body. So I begin to pretend I simply don't have one. I ignore it, try to disappear into the background as best I can, and keep my head down and buried in a book.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">1998.</span></div>
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I fear and abhor physical exercise. I feel like a different species from every other girl in my year. The sporty girls, naturally, (one of whom has such body confidence that she wears a blue and yellow Adidas three-stripe two-piece to our swimming lessons, like Sporty Spice). Being that we're in rural Wales, there were also many, many girls who live on farms. Girls who can carry hay bails and fence posts. Girls who spend their weekends traversing acres of land to mend fences and tend to the livestock. Girls who complete the equivalent of one of those trendy tough mudder endurance challenges every weekend, summer and winter: staunch, stoic, strong, seeming unselfconcious girls, who seem to understand that their bodies are tools. Machines. Equipment.</div>
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I dodge school every Monday and Thursday for about two months. It doesn't feel like a lie when I tell my parents I have unbearable recurring stomach cramps – the anxiety is genuinely nauseating. The fear is carnal. The tears are real.</div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">In hindsight, it's not as if I couldn't have performed the activity. I wasn't very fit, but I was young and otherwise healthy. My body was perfectly normal for a girl my age – in my mid-teens I was a size 10. And it wasn't the thought of engaging in physical exercise that terrified me. It was the thought of being watched and judged and found lacking. It didn't occur to me that everyone in the class would be too busy doing their own thing to watch and judge me. In my anxious and utterly self-obsessed teenage mind, I would be a target. I would be hurt, and in order to protect myself I had simply to omit that threat from my life by not engaging with it at all.</em></div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Really, I was still pretending I didn't have a body. It was easier than examining how I really about it. I disliked it intensely. I didn't like the way it looked when it moved. I didn't like the way it looked when it was still. When I dodged I'd sit at home and read and read and read until my brain was full as an egg.</em></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">2004.</span></div>
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I am through to the final round of auditions for a prestigious drama school. The audition is before a Shakespeare scholar – a man who knows every letter of every word Shakespeare has ever written (and quite a few that he may not have). I've chosen Cleopatra for my monologue because she is a Strong Woman (I have recently become a staunch supporter of Strong Women). I sit and watch Mr Scholar tear strips off participants who stand beautifully and speak beautifully, but aren't really engaged in the meaning of the words.</div>
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(<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">It sounds obvious, but an actor really should understand the meaning of their lines. I auditioned for a Shakespeare play IN WELSH once where a boy recited the line “you kissed me once, on the lips” and pointed at his forehead).</em></div>
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I am abrim with anxiety, but I can't wait to perform for this man – I know that I know my shit better than anyone else in this room. I know THEIR speeches better than they do. I know I can withstand any interrogation about any editorial revisions (some classical works vary very slightly from edition to edition – a “thee” when there had been a “thou”, that kind of thing. This bastard had memorised every edition of every edition. But then, so have I. As I say, I know that I know my shit).</div>
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I know Cleopatra too, as best as a 19 year-old Welsh lass can. I know her pride. I know her churlishness. I know her sorrow. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">(I'm not saying I'm the lost Judi Dench of my generation. Although I could be. We'll never know. I'm just saying I worked hard.)</em> I begin my audition. I keep my voice steady, my tone rich. I move around the space as I've been directed to by my drama teacher (“using the space” is VERY important in THE THEATRE), drawing imaginary pentagrams with my feet, keeping my mind's eye on the faithless Anthony, goading him, taunting him with <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">(my)</em>Cleopatra's beauty.</div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">“Eternity was in our lips and eyes,</em></div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Bliss in our brow's bent,</em></div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">none our parts so poor but was a race of heaven...”</em></div>
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“NO. NO. NO. YOU'RE MAKING YOUR BODY LOOK UGLY”.</div>
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My breathe stops. His words are suspended in the air like icicles. It takes me a fraction of a second to compose myself, to ask cheerily “OK! What can I do to change that?”. I don't know how he responds. I just know the horror – the dry, inevitable horror – of having my fears confirmed. The thing is, he didn't say that my body IS ugly. It's not. Everything's in the right place, and everything works. I am MAKING it look ugly. I'm holding it wrong. Moving it wrong. Shaping it in a way which is aesthetically disagreeable. I am pretending to be the most beautiful woman who'd ever lived (can we agree not to examine that too closely, please?) and I'm failing because I can't even PRETEND to be the right kind of beautiful. And it didn't matter how well I know the play, how hard I've worked, it didn't matter that I'd lived with those stories in my heart and those words in my mouth for months. I'm not able to do what I yearn for because I didn't know how to make my body look beautiful.</div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;">P.S. I didn't go to drama school, but for a few years I remembered the names of those who did, and kept a very casual eye on how their careers were progressing. They're not up to much. So in a way, I win.</em></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">2013.</span></div>
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I start running after I experience a major depressive episode. I start running because I'm terrified. I've been bed-ridden for a week, crying because I was thirsty and I couldn't summon the energy to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. I need a practical strategy to fix my brain. And I hate it. Leaving the flat feels like agony. I run for sixty seconds at a time, praying for respite. There are no endorphins, just numb relief when I'm finally allowed to go home and cry in the bath.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">2015.</span></div>
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It took two belligerent, bloody-minded years for me to stop thinking of running as a chore. For the chorus of “this-is-BULLshit-this-is-BULLshit-this-is-BULLshit” to stop chugging through my head as I wheezed and panted around the neglected South London park. I ran for a few weeks at a time, then stopped because it was too hard or I was too lazy. I never put my trainers on without seething resentment weighing me down. A lot changed in that two years. I left a promising but unfulfilling career as an agent to make lattes and write. I went on holiday on my own. I joined Slimming World, and now I'm no longer lugging around an extra 15 pounds. When I started running again most recently, it felt different. It was no longer an endurance. I no longer prayed for respite. It no longer felt as though I was punishing my body. I was nurturing it. I felt good after running, and not just because of the smugness – the fabled endorphins finally turned up, making my nerves crackle and my breathe feel silky and cool in my lungs. It didn't hurt because I didn't push myself so hard I wouldn’t recover for two days. It felt like the opposite of helplessness and hopelessness. It felt like power.</div>
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I see toddlers in the park, roaring and rampaging and chasing squirrels and running with no destination and no impetus beyond “look there's a leaf I must dance with it and what happens if I stretch my hands up in the air and go BLAAAAARGH! This is fantastic I'm going to keep doing it BLAAAAAAARGH!!!” It's play. It's instinct. They are learning how to be human and part of that means grasping the mechanics of the vessel they're in. I must have done that once. But when you've spent 30 years avoiding exercise because you abhor it, it frightens you and you're terrible at it. it takes an enormous psychological shift to re-examine and overcome that fear. I've spent years telling myself I'm not defined by my body, in defiance of the signs and signifiers I'm bombarded with every day. The apparent primary goal of exercise is to get those abs – why should I want those abs? Why should I want to exercise? No thank YOU, cardiovascular health! Take your mental health benefits elsewhere! I'm not conforming to your body fascist beauty ideals!</div>
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I avoided exercise because moving my body meant admitting that I HAD a body, that I'd had one all along and that I'd been neglecting it. It's like checking your bank balance at the end of a decadent month, but when you haven't checked it for thirty years, and the balance is your life expectancy.</div>
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I try not to think about looking a particular way (a blatant lie – I'd love to have a flatter stomach and slimmer arms). But I think if I were the size and shape I am now and could run for an hour without stopping, I'd be delighted. I still grapple with the notion that I have to be good at running, that it's not enough to just DO it. Part of me still aspires to making my body look beautiful. To having grace. FINESSE. Of course what I really mean is that I wish I was more FEMININE in my movements. I want to be DAINTY. I wish to be a DELICATE WAIF-LIKE ETHEREAL FLOWER BUT I'M JUST NOT. I'm clumsy. I'm ungainly. I'm strong and I'm stoic, and it might take another two years but I'm going to finish the NHS couch25k podcast. It's meant to take nine weeks. So far it's taken me 140ish. Slow and steady and all that.</div>
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According to the amazing, AMAZING This Girl Can campaign, two million fewer women than men exercise regularly because they're concerned about the way they look. Two million women aren't enjoying the mental and physical health benefits of gentle exercise because they're afraid of their bodies. Our bodies are a tool. They're an integral part of our life experience. They're the connective tissue between our brains and our souls and all the wonderful things we have to enjoy in this world. If you neglect your body, you'll only ever live two-thirds of your life. For me, running is an act of self-love. It feeds my self esteem - it's a tangible demonstration that I care about myself enough to take an hour out of my day tending to something that belongs to me and only me. I'm currently working towards running 5k. I'd like to get to 10k eventually. No more. Stick your marathons up your arse. If I need to travel 26 miles I'll get a bus. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-63948269935527361372016-04-05T07:52:00.001-07:002016-04-05T07:54:04.380-07:00Warm Fuzzies <div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.8571px; margin-top: 1rem; position: relative;">
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Afternoon!</div>
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Since it all kicked off, I've been overwhelmed by messages of support from all over the world. This is an extract from a beautiful email I received from a Turkish PE teacher (faithfully reproduced with his kind permission):</div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">"Today i saw your letter in a news. Im shocked. I don't know when it happened. But it is so new in Turkey. Everybody feels sick about your flirt boy. Everybody already hate him. Cause of he hurts your feeling. There is a group of childs im helping them for their physical evolution. Some of them really overweight. And some of them really skinny. But they love eachother. And noone laughs the others body. In my country in school, in course or any organisation first lesson is loving our body and loving our friends. Today i regrouped the childs. We went to swimming. And none of them knows your case. I read them your and the other mans letter. They are just 10 - 15 years old. I think your letter is a good letter to example them how this case hurts people. After a little discussion i saw them hug overweight friends. I really like this. They are maybe little people. But they have big hearth. And they understand what i mean."</em></div>
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We have to keep this conversation going, folks. We have to talk to our young people about their bodies and other people's, about all the ways a healthy, happy body can look. And they have to know that each body - fat, thin, healthy, unfit, whether it's full of burgers or bulgar wheat - deserves RESPECT. </div>
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It starts with us. Together we can prevent body shaming and bullying, and promote health and happiness for everyone at any size. </div>
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Thank you. </div>
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Michelle x</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-48680742386912692202016-04-05T07:51:00.000-07:002016-04-05T07:51:04.799-07:00Dear Maria, Hayley, Fatima, Asli, Beatriz, Cassandra, Meagan, and all the other young girls who've asked me for help. <div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.8571px; margin-top: 1rem; position: relative;">
(This letter was originally published by <a href="http://www.bdcwire.com/this-ones-for-the-girls/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; transition: color 0.3s;">BDC Wire</a>. Here's a fuller version). </div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">I've been overwhelmed by thousands of messages of support from all over the world after my recent blog post about my experience of body-shaming was viewed over 220,000 times worldwide. The messages that pluck most insistently at my conscience are those I receive from girls as young as 12. I have three nieces: an 11-year-old, a 9-year-old, and a 2-month-old. This is for them. </em></div>
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Dear Maria, Dear Hayley, Dear Fatima, Asli, Beatriz, Cassandra, Meagan, and Katelyn. </div>
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Dear Macie. Dear Phoebe. Dear Ava. </div>
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Dear all of you. </div>
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First of all, thank you so much for emailing me. It's a brave thing, to confide to a stranger that you're confused, or lonely, or unhappy. Sharing these concerns is the best way to get rid of them, but few people remember that (myself included). So again – thank you.</div>
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Secondly, just imagine we're chatting in a park, or at a bus stop, or at a birthday party. You see, in case you didn't know, I am in no way qualified to dispense advice to anyone. However, you took the time to write to me, so I will respond. If you really need to talk to someone proper, someone who knows how to help you if you need it, I've included some contacts at the end. </div>
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Each of you ladies has written to me because you think you're “not normal”. Because you find it hard to make friends, or because you've never had a boyfriend and fear you never will because (exclusively because) of the way you look. You've written because you're afraid to take swimming lessons because of the bathing costumes. And you've asked me for advice on how to “make (your) body the kind that will attract boys.” </div>
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You're writing to me (I think) because when a man tried to make me feel bad about my body, I responded with what I believe you refer to as a “mic-drop” moment. I told him off for imposing his views about my body upon me uninvited. I told him what it means when a man criticizes a woman's weight—it confirms the fear that every girl has (something that, sadly, your letters have confirmed): that it doesn't matter how funny you are, how clever, how kind, how loyal, how determined or adventurous or vibrant—if you're overweight, no one will ever fancy you. </div>
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I am overweight. While this isn't ideal because it means I'm not at my best health-wise, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Your body should never, ever be a source of shame. Darling Girls: tuck these words into a pocket in your mind, so that you can pull them out and re-read them whenever you may need to. YOUR BODY SHOULD NEVER, EVER BE A SOURCE OF SHAME. </div>
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You can decide you want to change your body for the better, as I have (I've lost 20 pounds by dramatically improving my diet and plan to lose 20 more). But taking care of your body doesn't mean you have to hurt it. It doesn't mean starving it, wearing it out, gorging that beautiful brain which you should be filling with books and art and driving lessons on identical, dead-eyed, alien images that insist that being white and skinny and never ever smiling is the only way for any woman to be of any worth.</div>
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Absolutely no good comes from hating your body. You must train yourself to love it. It is not an object, nor a commodity, nor is it a burden. It is not someone else's trophy. It's the only thing in this world that is yours and yours alone, and you only get one. FFS, girls (yes, I know the middle one means a swear word), love your body.</div>
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Sadly, there are people – rich, powerful people - who aim to make a lot of money from tricking you into thinking of your body as a source of shame. They'll tell you it's too big, too hairy, too pale, too dark, too muscly, or not muscly enough. There are individuals too, who will try to use this awful power to undermine you, to control and manipulate you. Do not let them. I hope that by starting an honest conversation with you now, you brave, smart girls, you'll have the tools to laugh at any and all attempts to undermine you. Challenge them. Outwit them. Show them your disdain for them. But above all, laugh at them. Then you'll have won. We ALL will have won.</div>
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Now, girls, I think I am going to give you a little advice, if I may. Find something you love and keep doing it. The world has so many beautiful, smart, enriching things to fill your head and your heart with: books and art and films, and activities like dancing, cooking, hiking, competitive spear fishing....</div>
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Try EVERYTHING. Start a band. Take photographs. Write a blog. Find out what you like and keep doing it.</div>
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In doing this, you'll meet people who share your passions. Some of those people will become your friends. A few may become something more, if that's what you both want. (I didn't have a proper boyfriend until I was 19—I know there's no point in me saying, "Don't worry about it," but please, don't worry about it.) </div>
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One more thing: Absolutely no online dating until you're at least 25. I won't go into why. You're just going to have to trust me on this one.</div>
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Be smart and be kind, respect yourself and others, trust yourself, and take care of yourself, you clever, courageous girls. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.</div>
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Love,</div>
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Michelle xx </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-85672458823989154942016-04-05T07:44:00.000-07:002016-04-05T07:45:04.614-07:00HEALTHY HAPPY HOT MANIFESTO <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's.<br />
Been.<br />
IN.<br />
SANE.</div>
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Last week I was rejected by a man after one date for not being “a slip of a girl”. I threw together a blog responding to the horrible things he said before heading to the pub.</div>
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That blog has now been viewed 220K times.</div>
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I've gone from having 70 instagram followers to almost 27k.</div>
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I'm getting 1000s of messages from all over the world from women and men desperate to talk about their bodies, about shame, about bullying, and about recovery.</div>
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It's overwhelming, but incredibly galvanising. I've got my big-girl knick-knicks on, and my sturdy boots. My sleeves are rolled up and I'm ready to work to keep the conversation going.</div>
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*stands on a soapbox, clears throat*</div>
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MY MANIFESTO BY MICHELLE THOMAS (aged 30).</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">1) Don't be a bad human. </span></div>
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In particular in relation bodyshaming – a regrettably widely-used lexical term for the act of bullying and belittling someone due to their physical appearance. Too fat, too thin, too hairy, not hairy enough, too short, too tall......ENOUGH. I've been using the term a lot recently as I had to grab the nearest one to hand when it all kicked off (give me a break, I've never gone viral before). But I'm coming around to thinking it might be superfluous. "Bullying" is a perfectly acceptable term for this type of behaviour. As is "being a bumhole". But yeah, let's keep it PG. Let's keep it at “don't be a bad human”.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">2a) It's fine to have a physical preference....</span></div>
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We all do. That's biology. It's great to fancy someone of a particular physical manifestation. And it's fine not to fancy someone regardless of how well put together they are. We all have our weaknesses (myself? I love a pretty face). However....</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">2b) It's not fine to make your physical preference someone else's problem.</span></div>
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Looking at a platonic friend and secretly thinking "if only they were taller / slimmer / hairier / younger...." is fine. It's a cruel biological trick, but hey, the species won't continue itself.</div>
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Did you spot the key word there?</div>
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SECRETLY.</div>
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When you tell someone "You're lovely! But I'd love it if you were taller / slimmer / hairier / younger....", you are making your (perhaps limited) physical preferences their problem. You are imposing your values on them, unsolicited. It's passive-aggressive. It's manipulative. At its worst, this behaviour is known as “negging” - a shamefull prevalent "dating strategy" (YUCK) which involves methodically chipping away at a person's self-esteem until they are utterly under your control. This behaviour is in breach of manifesto item 1. Don't do it.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">3) Be honest with yourself and others about your body.</span></div>
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This is a tricky one. This one may hurt.</div>
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According to the NHS, one in four of us is overweight.</div>
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I am one of the four, being roughly 20 pounds overweight.</div>
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I've already lost 15, and am making good, slow, steady progress.</div>
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I want to be fitter and care for my body. I want to finish the NHS Couch25K podcast instead of giving up in the 5th week.But that's not to say that I don't love and enjoy my body right now. Here. Today.</div>
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I'm not ashamed of being overweight. I'm not embarrassed to share that I'm working to lose weight.</div>
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The feeling of shame in relation to weight is evident by the (well-meaning) messages I've received claiming I "can't be" overweight (well, my doctor says I am), I “don't look overweight” (I do, because I am) and in one bewildering instance, "fat is just a state of mind" (what?! No. It's really not).</div>
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We need to take the poison out of the statement "I'm overweight". That doesn't mean accepting being overweight as happy and healthy, it just means being unabashedly clear and honest a s/when you're moving towards change.</div>
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In order to cast out shame, w e need to start being honest about our bodies. P ost honest pics on your dating profiles, ladies and gents. I f you arrive and you're not the person your date thought you were, you're setting yourself up for rejection, because you have already sent the message that your true self isn't good enough.</div>
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Which brings me to manifesto item:</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">4) Before/After Culture is Evil.</span></div>
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You know the pictures I mean: the ones that reinforce the idea if you're overweight you must be depressed, reclusive, sexless, lonely and unattractive.</div>
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STANDARD BEFORE PIC: Badly lit, in an unflattering outfit. Perhaps in an ill-fitting bikini or (my personal favourite) struggling through a tough work out in skimpy gym gear (“LOOK AT THAT FAT IDIOT! TRYING TO IMPROVE THEMSELVES! LOOK AT THEM SWEAT AND TURN RED AS THEY PERFORM CARDIOVASCULAR EXCERSIE TO IMPROVE BLOOD PRESSURE, SPEED UP THEIR METABOLISM AND IMPROVE THEIR OVERALL PHYSICAL AND MENTAL WELLBEING! WHAT A DISGUSTING LOSER! HAHAHAHAHA!)</div>
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STANDARD AFTER PIC: Groomed. Glamorous. Gorgeous (with a hint of wistfulness for the lost years in Club Fatty-Boom-Batty).</div>
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BALLS. TO. THAT.</div>
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My "before" pics are the swimsuit ones you might have seen online. They were taken on my 30th birthday to mark the occasion. In those picture I'm horribly hungover after a heavy night-before which involved my mates spoiling me rotten with delicious food and booze. On that day my gorgeous friend Zoe and I went to my favourite park, where we cackled like crones as she chased me around with a camera, yelling “STICK YOUR BUM OUT! STICK YOUR TITS OUT!” (to the bewilderment of many a dogwalker)</div>
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Yes. I'm overweight in those pictures. But did that make that day any less joyous? Less memorable? Less important? Hells No.</div>
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I don't know what my after shots will look like but if they're as fun as the before....? Mate. I can't wait. Nor should you.</div>
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Enjoy all the amazing things you can do with your body right now. Do things. Look at stuff. Talk to people. Walk around a bit. Use that joy as a propeller aimed at health and happiness.</div>
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Which brings me to my final point, and the nub of our campaign strategy – its title.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">Healthy. Happy. Hot.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">Aim for the first two. The third will take care of itself. </span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">Coming soon. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-88609214936004507362015-09-09T07:18:00.002-07:002015-09-09T07:18:43.700-07:00Dear Nicole Arbour.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEI65lNY15hwC4BiV_QxlRwgUoni9e_tLS3WvWRbp7w2M82rgA65yqY83Cnw_CecMibiplTDvlyuRCCheZY9_-OwfQ1p9OEQXKntfLQMIVkB6mywulSR96YoNS8npZmOoqIc3Ejlbo0s7O/s1600/nicolearbour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEI65lNY15hwC4BiV_QxlRwgUoni9e_tLS3WvWRbp7w2M82rgA65yqY83Cnw_CecMibiplTDvlyuRCCheZY9_-OwfQ1p9OEQXKntfLQMIVkB6mywulSR96YoNS8npZmOoqIc3Ejlbo0s7O/s400/nicolearbour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">This article appeared in<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/nicole-arbour-as-someone-whos-been-fatshamed-let-me-tell-you-your-truth-bomb-didnt-work-10492879.html"> The Independent </a>this morning. Below is the unabridged version. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Hi
Nicole,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">I recently went viral because of </span><a href="http://iwillpayonepoundforyourstory.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/tinder-date.html" style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">a
blog I wrote about being rejected by a Tinder date for being too fat</a><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">. I'm now running a campaign against bullying and bodyshaming called <a href="https://unbound.co.uk/books/healthy-happy-hot">Healthy Happy Hot</a>. I want to address couple of points you made in your video,
“Dear Fat People”.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Fat-shaming
is not a thing”</b></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">It
definitely is. It's when people bully and undermine others for being
overweight. Like, for example, making a video expressing your disgust
at an overweight young man who does nothing more than sit next to you
on the plane.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>If
I offend you so much that you lose weight, I'm happy”....“I hope
this truth bomb works...” </b></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Oh,
Nicole. It really doesn't work that way. </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">After
my blog went viral, I was contacted by people all over the world
sharing their stories. </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Check
out the comments under my<a href="http://iwillpayonepoundforyourstory.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/tinder-date.html">
blog</a>, </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">on
my <a href="https://instagram.com/p/5o3dQ0I4Ut/?taken-by=msmthomas">instagram</a>,
on </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">my</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/healthyhappyhotuk/photos/pb.1024868990880053.-2207520000.1441791796./1034370413263244/?type=3&theater">Facebook</a>
page from</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
people who've been </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">affected
by bodyshaming</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">.
I</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">'ve had</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
emails from people in the</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">ir</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
seventies who </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">were
bullied in their youth</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
and </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">have
</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">never
recovered. One man broke my heart telling me how a girl was sat next
to him on a train texting her friend </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">with
her phone tilted up towards him that she was “sat next to someone
FAT”. </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Out
of the thousands – and I mean T.H.O.U.S.A.N.D.S. - of </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">the
</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">messages
I</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">'ve</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
received, not one was from someone who'd been bullied into making
</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">positive,
</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">healthy
changes. </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Not
one. </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Quite
the opposite. </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">In
most cases </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">it
either leads to people developing eating disorders like anorexia and
bulimia, or the people hiding themselves away to eat, and eat, and
eat, putting on more weight because they're too frightened </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">or</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
embarrassed </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">or
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">ashamed
to change. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Even
when </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">an
overweight person </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">tr</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">ies</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
to make a </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">positive
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">change,
the knives are out. Overweight p</span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">eople
are </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">too
intimidated</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
to go running because of the abuse they suffer like </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Lindsey
Swift (whose <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/fionarutherford/a-woman-wrote-an-open-letter-to-the-man-who-called-her-fat-d">kick-ass
response</a> made me jiggle my jello with joy).</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">The
amazing <a href="http://www.thisgirlcan.co.uk/">This Girl Can</a>
campaign started because so many women are afraid or ashamed of the
way their </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">natural
</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">bodies
move. </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">So
no, Nicole. You're not helping. You're hurting. </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>You
don't need body positivity. Just eat well and exercise”</b></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">It's
true that obesity is an epidemic in the West. But if losing weight
were just a question of eating less and moving more, do you think 35%
of American and 25% of Brits would still be overweight? </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">The
concept of #bodypositivity came about to encourage women of all
shapes and sizes to love, respect and care for their bodies. Eating
well and exercise is an important factor in that, but the key thing
is loving your body whatever it looks like, so that you WANT to care
for it. I've had emails from 16/14/12-year-old girls telling me their
terrified that they might be overweight when they're older. They're
not terrified of breast cancer. They're not terrified of heart
disease. They've been inspired to write to a stranger because they're
terrified of becoming fat because they'll be shunned by their
friends, they won't get boyfriends, and they'll be judged, criticised
and bullied by the ignorant, the shallow and the unkind.
#BodyPositivity promotes health and happiness for everyone. What kind
of sociopath takes against that?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Plus
size means plus heart disease.”</b></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Which
</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">nutritionist
did you get these fact from, </span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Nicole</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">?
</span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">Which
dietician? Because I spoke to </span><a href="http://www.well-founded.org.uk/">Lucy
Aphramor</a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">,
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">a
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">f</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">ormer</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
NHS dietician who, disillusioned with the one-size-fits-all </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">ideal</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
that weight-loss </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">automatically
equals better health</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">,
founded her own practice</span></span><span style="color: #0068cf;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u>
</u></span></span></span><a href="http://www.well-founded.org.uk/about/lucys-story-a-professional-journey-to-haes-practice/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0068cf;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u>Health
At Every Size</u></span></span></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">which
focuses on improving individuals' self-esteem to inspire them to make
sustainable changes in eating and exercise behaviours </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">without
focusing on weight or size</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">,
and</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">
has produced spectacular results in some of the country's poorest and
unhealthiest areas. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">I
also spoke to nutritionist Sophie Pelham Burn, </span><span style="color: black;">who
expressed concern that so many of her clients </span><span style="color: black;">“assume
body weight to be a proxy indicator for health, which is simply not
true. Skinny does not equal healthy, neither does athleticism.” </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">In
the UK anyone from a size 12 up is considered plus size. Which means
that the average British and American woman, is plus size. You can't
judge someone's blood pressure </span><span style="color: black;">by
their size</span><span style="color: black;">.
Or their </span><span style="color: black;">cholesterol</span><span style="color: black;">
level. </span><span style="color: black;">Or
their metabolic profile. “Plus-size”</span><span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;">is
a concept invented by high street fashion chains so that they can
charge women an extra £2 for an extra inch of fabric. It has no
meaning outside of Topshop. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Fat
family at the airport....” </b></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">I
found this portion of your video particularly grotesque. There's
nothing “kind” or “encouraging” about this story. It's
irredeemably, eye-wateringly cruel. You're bullying a disabled
family. Yes, it's likely that they're disabled because they're
overweight. Yes, it's likely that they're overweight because they
live unhealthy lifestyles. But that doesn't change the fact that
they're disabled, and entitled to and deserving of additional
support. You think they don't know that they're fat? You think they
can't feel the waves of disgust radiating from you? You don't say how
old the son was, but do you think he doesn't know how his family is
judged by people like you? How do you think that makes him feel?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">According
to Wiki, you started dancing when you were three. That probably
wasn't your decision. You were born into a family that priorities
health and physical activity and that was ingrained in you from a
young age. Great. But not everyone has that. This boy didn't have
that. How dare you attack him for it? </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I'm
not saying it to be an asshole”. </b></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">This
video is ignorant and cruel at best. At worst it could be dangerous.
Here's why:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">At
the beginning of this video you name check the singer Kesha. Kesha
spent the best part of last year in rehab recovering from anorexia
and bulimia, which had been brought on in part by industry pressure
to look skinny, and constant degrading comments from her then-manager
who told her she looked “like a fat fucking refrigerator”.She<a href="http://www.elleuk.com/fashion/celebrity-style/kesha-reborn-read-her-honest-memoir-rehab-eating-disorder">
wrote</a> on the subject:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I
felt like part of my job was to be as skinny as possible, and to make
that happen, I had been abusing my body. I just wasn’t giving it
the energy it needed to keep me healthy and strong. My brain told me
to just suck it up and press on, but in my heart I knew that
something had to change.... I had to learn to treat my body with
respect.”</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">In
this video, you personify the worst of the internet. As I watched, I
expected you to rip off a mask, Scooby-Doo style, to reveal an
unmoderated Reddit page, overrun by trolls, meninists and health
concern fascists. Of course, being so abrasive about such an emotive
issue is going to garner you attention. It's cheap, but obviously
very effective. And the fact that you relabelled the video MOST
OFFENSIVE VIDEO EVER means you know that. You call it satire. But
it's not. Because you didn't make this video for the 35%. You didn't
make it for that family at the airport, who I hope don't recognise
you and realise it's them you're talking about. You made it for
others like you. The girls who text their friends that they're “sat
next to someone FAT”, the men on Tinder who criticise a woman's
body if she won't send him nudes. It's not satire, Nicole. It's
bullying. It's hate-speech. You're attempting to empower yourself by
undermining and demonising another group of people who are different
from you. In short – yes, you ARE being an asshole.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Corbel, sans-serif;">I
agree with you about one thing you tweeted in the wake of all this,
though. “If I were a guy people would've lol'd and moved on”.
It's true that a male comedian wouldn't have met so much negativity
for being a bully. As a female who's made a mistake, you will take
much more flak than a man would have for the same mistake. The
internet is a dangerous place for a woman with opinions, Nicole, and
although our opinions are clearly very different, I still hate to see
a woman get publicly skinned alive. If you want to talk about that,
email me at <a href="mailto:michelle@healthyhappyhot.uk">michelle@healthyhappyhot.uk</a>
. However, if you choose to rectify that mistake by apologising, the
positive impact could be enormous. It might make someone reconsider
before they say or do something hurtful that they can't take back.
Make it good, Nicole. Make it something positive. Maybe even
#bodypositive. </span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-16657866582913276392015-09-06T10:49:00.000-07:002015-09-06T10:49:54.071-07:00Empathetic Honesty (or Don't be a Bad Human).<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9tIU94sUcZMZPlgi7o1YyLOxvYNw4_t7UTQzv1n2g2RT0hHY1ZO23O5uuD9pYnSElG0JlFpwpSoN5Sf1WIonecFXZ4GFT1OSKWm_KmCv0GV0cPb2vJ_zdEVyj6PQrLcWCgB0aFgajno_/s1600/BadHuman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9tIU94sUcZMZPlgi7o1YyLOxvYNw4_t7UTQzv1n2g2RT0hHY1ZO23O5uuD9pYnSElG0JlFpwpSoN5Sf1WIonecFXZ4GFT1OSKWm_KmCv0GV0cPb2vJ_zdEVyj6PQrLcWCgB0aFgajno_/s320/BadHuman.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
Apparently, Socrates* said it. Before you say something, ask yourself – is it kind, is it necessary, and is it true? If what you're about to say doesn't meet at least two of those criteria, don't say it. Pretty good rule of thumb if you ask me.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
The value of honesty is often perverted and warped in defence of unkindness. “But I'm only being HONEST!” screeches the wide-eyed bully after undermining and belittling someone because of the way they look or speak, or where they're from, or how much money they earn. Honesty is important – of course it is – but so is kindness. So is compassion. So is empathy.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
A few months ago, after going on a few dates with a very nice man, I received the following text:</div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">“I've just been asked by another date if we can be exclusive, and I'd like to see where it goes so I'm really sorry but I'm going to have to stop seeing you. I had a lot of fun, thank you lovely and good luck xx”</em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
Naturally, I was a little disappointed. He was a great guy and I was hoping I'd get to know him better. But what a lovely way to be let down. He's absolutely truthful – there's no fey talk of “slowing things down”, he's not “really busy at work”, he's not “confused about what he wants”. I won't be seeing him again because he's met someone who he prefers to spent his time with. He conveys the honest truth, directly and kindly. What more can anyone ask?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
Empathetic honesty doesn't mean being evasive. It doesn't mean being selective with the truth. You can communicate sensitive information while treating the recipient with dignity and compassion.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">Be Kind to Everyone (yes, that means everyone).</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
I was in Edinburgh a few weeks ago, during the festival. In a busy bar at 3am, a vicious-eyed man with poison in his voice and chemical violence in his veins screamed obscenities at me for some perceived slight. And I mean screamed - his blood-red face inches from mine, until his spittle flew and his eyes bulged with frenzied hatred. My friends flanked me and drove him away but, deeply shaken, I went home.</div>
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The next day, Edinburgh being Edinburgh, I saw that man's face on a poster for his comedy show. Then I found him on Twitter. His most recent tweet was a picture of himself posing proudly with his family, sweetly captioned with an expression of his love for them. As I looked at the picture, he looked like an utterly different man to the creature who'd abused me in the bar. I feared and hated this man, and it seethed like a snake pit in my belly. The next day as I left Edinburgh, I tweeted him and asked how his family would feel if they knew that a few hours after that photo was taken he'd be shrieking obscene insults, over and over again, at a woman he didn't know in a bar (I waited until I was long gone, of course. I didn't want to meet him again).</div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
A few hours later he sent me an email offering the sincerest and most genuine apology I've ever received. He told me he'd been frightened by what he could remember of his own behaviour that night. He'd been trying to find me to apologise. A sequence of terrible events – stolen money, a bereavement, a friend in hospital – had befallen him all at once. And while he stressed that these events didn't excuse his behaviour, he admitted that he was terribly, terribly hurt, and that his actioned reflected his sorrow and his rage and his loneliness. He answered my question – he told me his family wouldn't recognise him, would be afraid of his behaviour, would see he was hurting and try to help. Even as I read the email the hatred in my heart evaporated. I was surprised by the physical sensation – it felt like the exhalation of a long-held breathe. Turns out that hating someone is EXHAUSTING. It takes as much effort to hate a human as it does to love, with none of the rewards. Buddha* nailed it – bearing a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.</div>
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I immediately accepted his apology. I deleted my tweet. I asked him to please not let it happen again, repeated to him exactly what he'd said to me that night, not to labour the point or to make him feel more remorseful than he evidently already did, but to make sure that he knew what he'd done and that, regardless of circumstance, it was unacceptable.</div>
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Although my manner of contacting him was admittedly confrontational and spiteful, I'm so glad he responded the way he did. He was clearly enduring a horribly challenging time. I honestly hope things get better for him.</div>
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“Be kind to everyone, for each of us is fighting our own battles”. Google can't decided whether this is from Plato, Philo or Dolly Parton*. Whoever said it, if we all spoke and acted with compassion and empathy, we'd all live nicer lives.</div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">*Sources: Pinterest, Facebook and InstaQuotes. If you know the correct origin of the ideals mentioned and feel compelled to share, knock yourself out. But remember – I'm not an academic. I'm just a lady trying to discourage people from acting like tools.</em></div>
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<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Like what you read? Please pledge for Healthy Happy Hot - a guide to modern manners for all Good Humans. </i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-26292327541634434102015-08-04T09:15:00.001-07:002015-08-04T09:16:35.281-07:00If You Think I'm Making It Up, You're Focusing on the Wrong Issue.<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I get it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">I totally get it.
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">Aspiring writer
writes blog about an unverifiable text from an unidentifiable man.
Blog goes viral, receiving the kind of attention that marketing folk
throw cash at by the fistful. Then - oh look! - it turns out that she
has a book to sell. How convenient. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">I totally
understand why some called the </span><span style="color: black;">blog</span><span style="color: black;">
“obvious nonsense” </span><span style="color: black;">and</span><span style="color: black;">
“</span><span style="color: black;">z</span><span style="color: black;">eitgeisty
clickbait”. </span><span style="color: black;">Some offered open
admiration at </span><span style="color: black;">my effective promotion of</span><span style="color: black;">
myself and my writing –</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;">I</span><span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;">wrote</span><span style="color: black;"> for
<a href="http://www.stylist.co.uk/life/my-nightmare-tinder-date-exposed-an-underlying-culture-of-body-shaming">The
Stylist</a> and <a href="http://standardissuemagazine.com/voices/are-you-that-lady-off-the-internet/?utm_content=buffere469e&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=buffer">Standard
Issue</a> in the week </span><span style="color: black;">after the blog
went viral</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;">(more
plugging).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">According to one
publication, further evidence of the fallacy I created is found in
that I am “extremely media savvy” and “know how to handle
journalists”. Read: I have the social skills and vocabulary to be
able to respond to a direct question without crying, hyperventilating
or overuse of the words “like”, “literally” or “basically”.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">Of course there
is the indisputable fact that “no man would ever write that after
just one date”. A friend of mine stumbled upon a Reddit thread
about me (she made me promise not to ever search for it, so I
haven't). Apparently one helpful MRA (men's rights activist) ran
“Simon's” letter through an online “gender guesser” which
concluded that – yes! - the writer of the letter is, in fact,
female. Dammit. I would have gotten away with it too, if I'd spelt
“hun” properly. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">As I say, I can
understand healthy cynicism. Especially because I can't prove that I
really did receive THAT text from a man I went on just one date with.
I can't verify that it's true without revealing his identity, and
that of this thirteen-year-old daughter – something I'll never,
ever do. I know I received that message. A few of my close friends
have seen it. My publishers have seen it. And the producers of the
national TV show I was on last week have seen it, on the insistence
of their lawyers. There's not much more I can offer, I'm afraid. I
could print a screen grab, but I could easily have faked one, so I'm
not going to bother. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">So. Let's assume
I'm lying. Let's assume that I am an
all-knowing</span><span style="color: black;">-</span><span style="color: black;">evil</span><span style="color: black;">-marketing-</span><span style="color: black;">genius,
who's just been biding her time as a café manager </span><span style="color: black;">until
the right moment</span><span style="color: black;"> to draw attention to a
12</span><span style="color: black;">-</span><span style="color: black;">month</span><span style="color: black;">-</span><span style="color: black;">old
crowdfunding campaign for a book </span><span style="color: black;">which
is </span><span style="color: black;">entirely unrelated to the </span><span style="color: black;">blog
</span><span style="color: black;">w</span><span style="color: black;">hich she
JUST KNEW would be read by 2</span><span style="color: black;">2</span><span style="color: black;">0,000
people worldwide</span><span style="color: black;">. </span><span style="color: black;">An
evil</span><span style="color: black;">-</span><span style="color: black;">marketing
genius who has to ask her Instagram followers <a href="https://instagram.com/p/49VkO_o4XG/?taken-by=msmthomas">how
to </a></span><a href="https://instagram.com/p/49VkO_o4XG/?taken-by=msmthomas"><span style="color: black;">receive
d</span></a><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://instagram.com/p/49VkO_o4XG/?taken-by=msmthomas">irect
messages,</a> </span><span style="color: black;">and </span><span style="color: black;">who
didn't know she'd been </span><span style="color: black;">given the nod </span><span style="color: black;">of
approval </span><span style="color: black;">by <a href="https://instagram.com/p/5AGocyI4ef/?taken-by=msmthomas">Zooey
Deschannel until three days after the fact</a>. </span><span style="color: black;">Let's
do that. </span><span style="color: black;">Let's assume that all of the
above is more like</span><span style="color: black;">l</span><span style="color: black;">y</span><span style="color: black;">
than a man sending a woman he barely knows an abusive message. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">Because that's
what happened. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">By
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">imposing
his views about my body upon me uninvited, </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">t</span></span>hat
man tried to manipulate me. To control me. To assert power over me
using the most effective weapon he had in his arsenal – the power
of shame. H<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">is
message was</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">n't</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">just</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
about </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">telling
me there would be no second date</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">.
Sending that meticulously</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">-</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">crafted,
400 word message which twist</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">s</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
and turn</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">s</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
between such tenderness </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>baby....honey...I
adore you”</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">)
and such </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">stark
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">brutality
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(“</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>I
don't want to be lying there next to you, and you asking me why I'm
not hard</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>”)
</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">was</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
a</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">n
act of cruelty. It sa</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">id</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
“I could love you thiiiiiiiiiiiis much...if only you were </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>slightly</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">different”.
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's
a widely-used strategy of dominance </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">used
by </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">some
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">individuals</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
to corrode th</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">e</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
self esteem </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">of
their partners</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
until they are utterly, utterly powerless. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And
this strategy will continue to be used, very effectively, b</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">y</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
individuals and by corporations out to profit from our insecurities,
until we challenge it, until we stop being ashamed of our bodies
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">because</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
we're too fat, too thin, too short, too scarred, or too different. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I
just felt like folding into myself and never coming out again.”</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>He
said I looked fat in our wedding photos. He'd say “Just trying to
help, babe” I was a size 10 (UK)”</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>...</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>during
our time together he manipulated me into believing the way he was
treating me was my fault. That it was because I was ugly and
undesirable. He had me to believe that I was being treated in
accordance with my worth and that other boyfriends didn’t do these
things to their girlfriends simply because they looked a damn sight
better than I did. I tried to change the way I looked so things would
stop. At 5 ft 5, I was a healthy 8 ½ stone when I met him. I’ve
lost a hell of a lot of weight since then. An unhealthy amount.” </i></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Have
you ever thought about committing suicide? The reason I ask is
because I have. I wonder if I just DIE, would I save myself the 'name
calling' 'bullying' and other forms of offensive language and action.
Am I crazy to think that?”</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">These
are a
few extracts
from the thousands of messages, comments and emails I've received
from women and men from all over the world. Thousands of voices
saying “me too”. I've received too many
messages from women and men battling anorexia, bulimia, and addiction
to overexercise. I've also heard from too many women and men who are
so paralysed by shame because they are overweight or obese, that they
don't know what to do other than hide themselves away and eat, and
eat, and eat, and eat. In both extremes these people discuss learning
this behaviour from parents, older siblings, boyfriends, girlfriends,
best friends. Each of these people cites an occasion where they were
bullied and shamed for the way their body looked – sometimes from
the ages of 7, 9, 13 - long before their illnesses took hold. I've
received messages from too many people who are afraid to go for that
job, that date, that holiday, because they're ashamed of their
bodies. I've received too many messages from men saying they're
afraid to start a relationship with a girl they really like, because
she's bigger than them and they're worried what their mates will
think. I've heard too many catfishing stories (from both sides, both
equally heartbreaking). I've received too many messages from 12 year
old girls, expressing displeasure, disgust and concern about what
their bodies look like now, and what they may look like in the
future. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">So.
Let's assume I'm lying. But if that's your main concern, you're
focussing on the wrong issue. And if you think there IS no issue,
after reading these comments and others comments my blog, on my
facebook page, on my instagram pictures – you're either very lucky,
or very ignorant. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">So.
Here comes another plug. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We
need to have a frank and honest conversation about our bodies – our
relationship with our own, and with other people's.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We
need prominent, positive examples of all the different ways a healthy
body can look.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We
need to remove the poison from the statement “I'm overweight” to
inspire the one in four of us who are overweight (myself included) to
make healthy, lasting changes. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We
need to invest in developing positive body image in our young people,
so that when they feel vulnerable and insecure, they have the tools
to withstand and recover from any underhanded shaming tactics. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We
need to do all of the above with integrity, compassion and (Heaven
forbid) humour. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I'm
launching a campaign to raise awareness of the effects of bodyshaming
and to encourage readers to aim for health and happiness, whatever
their shape or size. It's an ambitious project, which is why I will
be seeking advice from dieticians, nutritionists, psychologists and
health and fitness experts, as well talking to gamers, comedians,
models, soldiers, triathletes, Mums, Dads and others who are all in
different stages in their journeys towards health and happiness. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Speaking
of which, the campaign is called</span></span> Healthy. Happy. Hot.
Because if you aim for the first two, the third takes care of itself.
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">You can support
the campaign by<a href="https://unbound.co.uk/books/healthy-happy-hot"> pledging for the book at Unbound.</a> </span>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-7765765862641295582015-07-30T09:43:00.002-07:002015-07-30T09:43:53.932-07:00HEALTHY. HAPPY. HOT. THE MANIFESTO. <div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
<span id="goog_1299601412"></span><span id="goog_1299601413"></span><br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9BM-hX2MHoaXPbzAo2egxeLQo4IapfEcE23D6OiGL3cWJhpEH8Oyk-O8lftTHM77Lo_zI69IbVn8kqhuVWFY2885PRQog9TpQ-dBUaSBvDRhCHWC7aupfM2jFwYf9GUfrtrgF34BtgvM6/s1600/rsz_img_0485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9BM-hX2MHoaXPbzAo2egxeLQo4IapfEcE23D6OiGL3cWJhpEH8Oyk-O8lftTHM77Lo_zI69IbVn8kqhuVWFY2885PRQog9TpQ-dBUaSBvDRhCHWC7aupfM2jFwYf9GUfrtrgF34BtgvM6/s400/rsz_img_0485.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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It's.<br />
Been.<br />
IN.<br />
SANE.</div>
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Last week I was rejected by a man after one date for not being “a slip of a girl”. I threw together a blog responding to the horrible things he said before heading to the pub.</div>
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That blog has now been viewed 220K times.</div>
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I've gone from having 70 instagram followers to almost 27k.</div>
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I'm getting 1000s of messages from all over the world from women and men desperate to talk about their bodies, about shame, about bullying, and about recovery.</div>
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It's overwhelming, but incredibly galvanising. I've got my big-girl knick-knicks on, and my sturdy boots. My sleeves are rolled up and I'm ready to work to keep the conversation going.</div>
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*stands on a soapbox, clears throat*</div>
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MY MANIFESTO BY MICHELLE THOMAS (aged 30).</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">1) Don't be a bad human. </span></div>
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In particular in relation bodyshaming – a regrettably widely-used lexical term for the act of bullying and belittling someone due to their physical appearance. Too fat, too thin, too hairy, not hairy enough, too short, too tall......ENOUGH. I've been using the term a lot recently as I had to grab the nearest one to hand when it all kicked off (give me a break, I've never gone viral before). But I'm coming around to thinking it might be superfluous. "Bullying" is a perfectly acceptable term for this type of behaviour. As is "being a bumhole". But yeah, let's keep it PG. Let's keep it at “don't be a bad human”.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">2a) It's fine to have a physical preference....</span></div>
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We all do. That's biology. It's great to fancy someone of a particular physical manifestation. And it's fine not to fancy someone regardless of how well put together they are. We all have our weaknesses (myself? I love a pretty face). However....</div>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.125em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; position: relative;">
<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">2b) It's not fine to make your physical preference someone else's problem.</span></div>
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Looking at a platonic friend and secretly thinking "if only they were taller / slimmer / hairier / younger...." is fine. It's a cruel biological trick, but hey, the species won't continue itself.</div>
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Did you spot the key word there?</div>
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SECRETLY.</div>
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When you tell someone "You're lovely! But I'd love it if you were taller / slimmer / hairier / younger....", you are making your (perhaps limited) physical preferences their problem. You are imposing your values on them, unsolicited. It's passive-aggressive. It's manipulative. At its worst, this behaviour is known as “negging” - a shamefull prevalent "dating strategy" (YUCK) which involves methodically chipping away at a person's self-esteem until they are utterly under your control. This behaviour is in breach of manifesto item 1. Don't do it.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">3) Be honest with yourself and others about your body.</span></div>
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This is a tricky one. This one may hurt.</div>
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According to the NHS, one in four of us is overweight.</div>
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I am one of the four, being roughly 20 pounds overweight.</div>
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I've already lost 15, and am making good, slow, steady progress.</div>
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I want to be fitter and care for my body. I want to finish the NHS Couch25K podcast instead of giving up in the 5th week.But that's not to say that I don't love and enjoy my body right now. Here. Today.</div>
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I'm not ashamed of being overweight. I'm not embarrassed to share that I'm working to lose weight.</div>
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The feeling of shame in relation to weight is evident by the (well-meaning) messages I've received claiming I "can't be" overweight (well, my doctor says I am), I “don't look overweight” (I do, because I am) and in one bewildering instance, "fat is just a state of mind" (what?! No. It's really not).</div>
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We need to take the poison out of the statement "I'm overweight". That doesn't mean accepting being overweight as happy and healthy, it just means being unabashedly clear and honest a s/when you're moving towards change.</div>
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In order to cast out shame, w e need to start being honest about our bodies. P ost honest pics on your dating profiles, ladies and gents. I f you arrive and you're not the person your date thought you were, you're setting yourself up for rejection, because you have already sent the message that your true self isn't good enough.</div>
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Which brings me to manifesto item:</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">4) Before/After Culture is Evil.</span></div>
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You know the pictures I mean: the ones that reinforce the idea if you're overweight you must be depressed, reclusive, sexless, lonely and unattractive.</div>
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STANDARD BEFORE PIC: Badly lit, in an unflattering outfit. Perhaps in an ill-fitting bikini or (my personal favourite) struggling through a tough work out in skimpy gym gear (“LOOK AT THAT FAT IDIOT! TRYING TO IMPROVE THEMSELVES! LOOK AT THEM SWEAT AND TURN RED AS THEY PERFORM CARDIOVASCULAR EXCERSIE TO IMPROVE BLOOD PRESSURE, SPEED UP THEIR METABOLISM AND IMPROVE THEIR OVERALL PHYSICAL AND MENTAL WELLBEING! WHAT A DISGUSTING LOSER! HAHAHAHAHA!)</div>
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STANDARD AFTER PIC: Groomed. Glamorous. Gorgeous (with a hint of wistfulness for the lost years in Club Fatty-Boom-Batty).</div>
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BALLS. TO. THAT.</div>
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My "before" pics are the swimsuit ones you might have seen online. They were taken on my 30th birthday to mark the occasion. In those picture I'm horribly hungover after a heavy night-before which involved my mates spoiling me rotten with delicious food and booze. On that day my gorgeous friend Zoe and I went to my favourite park, where we cackled like crones as she chased me around with a camera, yelling “STICK YOUR BUM OUT! STICK YOUR TITS OUT!” (to the bewilderment of many a dogwalker)</div>
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Yes. I'm overweight in those pictures. But did that make that day any less joyous? Less memorable? Less important? Hells No.</div>
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I don't know what my after shots will look like but if they're as fun as the before....? Mate. I can't wait. Nor should you.</div>
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Enjoy all the amazing things you can do with your body right now. Do things. Look at stuff. Talk to people. Walk around a bit. Use that joy as a propeller aimed at health and happiness.</div>
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Which brings me to my final point, and the nub of our campaign strategy – its title.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">Healthy. Happy. Hot.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">Aim for the first two. The third will take care of itself. </span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;"><a href="https://unbound.co.uk/books/healthy-happy-hot">Pledge now. </a></span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">Thank you!</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-79565718686380660132015-07-13T10:45:00.002-07:002015-07-17T13:52:53.732-07:00A Response to Peter Lloyd of The Daily Mail. <div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Peter Lloyd of The Daily Mail wrote <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3156155/Feminist-hero-publicly-shamed-Tinder-date-voicing-body-type-preference-hypocrite.html">this</a> today. Here's my response. </i></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Hello
Peter!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
hope you're well. I'm fine. Thank you.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Just
a few teeny weeny notes on that there article you wrote in response
to my blog:</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> 1)
Michelle
Thomas was hailed a feminist hero for criticising a Tinder date who
rejected her because of her size. </i></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The
thing is, I didn't. I criticised him for sending me a 400 word text
after one date, detailing, in forensic detail, that he didn't fine me
sexually attractive because of my figure (I'm a size 14). As I write
in the blog, it's fine to have a physical preference. That's biology.
What's not fine is to make your physical preference someone else's
problem. Sending that meticulously crafted, 400 word message (<a href="http://www.iwillpayonepoundforyourstory.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/tinder-date.html">read
here</a>) which twisted and turned between condescending tenderness
<i>(</i><i>“baby....honey...I adore you”</i>) and breathtaking
brutality <i>(</i><i>“my mind gets turned on my som</i><i>e</i><i>one
slimmer....I'd marry you like a shot if you were a slip of a girl”</i><i>)</i>
is an act of cruelty. It's an assertion of power. It says “I could
love you thiiiiiiiiiiiis much...if only you were different”.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
wrote the blog to redress that imbalance of power which he asserted
by imposing his views about my body upon me uninvited. To let him and
readers know that <u>I</u> know that the language he used - of
manipulation, of control – was transparent in its intention to
wound. And to let them all know, while it worked briefly, it never
will again. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 0.56cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> 2)
...her
response reinforced the odd, unwritten rule that women can say
whatever they want about sexual desire and attraction, but men
can't. </i></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Pretty
sure that men have had quite a large say in </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">shaping
the rules </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">of
sexual desi</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">r</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">e
and attraction over the last 1000 years or so, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Pete
mate</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">.
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">You
know? Artists. Filmmakers. CEOs for multi-national companies that
profit from</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
constantly, covertly </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">overtly</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">telling
women that they are physically inadequate. I don't want to patronise
you, but you</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
might want to Google that one. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i> </i><i>3)</i><i>….she
claimed his behaviour was somehow 'body shaming' and 'objectifying'
the female form, but, sorry sisters, I disagree...</i>
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">You
disagree? Really? Because I think that sketching out a detailed
hypothetical situation where I'm lying naked in bed next to him,
pleading with him to make love to me, it pretty objectifying.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ext-gen109"></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> 4)
In
fact, the only thing he's truly guilty of is having an honest opinion
about women - one that isn't deemed 'on message' by the sisterhood -
and actually voicing it. Something
women have long done to modern men.</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="border: none; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This
is wrong. The examples you give (especially the John Prescott one)
are horrible. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="border: none; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">IT'S
NOT ALRIGHT FOR WOMEN TO BODYSHAME MEN.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="border: none; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It's
not. It's just not. Bur progress is slow. And decades of
objectification (I mentioned that earlier Peter, it'll still be up
there near the top of the article if you need to refresh your memory)
are going to provoke a response. First of all, simply YONKS back, we
didn't know we were oppressed. Then we DID know we were oppressed
(and we were, rightly, quite cross about it). Now we're slowing,
slowly moving into knowing we're not oppressed. We should aim for not
knowing we're not oppressed. And this won't happen unless until
everyone treats everyone else with respects, kindness and compassion.
(N.B. I concur with Ms. Allen. Her songs are about specific men, so
it's not hypocritical. I'm sure she's written songs about how lovely
specific men are too, and how excellent they are at the old biblical.
Balance, Peter. It's important)</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> 5)
It's
hypocritical. You know, like when we're told strip clubs are harmful
and degrading - by women thumbing a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey
while in the cinema queue for Magic Mike XXL. </i></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Peter.
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
can't wait to see Magic Mike XXL. I haven't seen the first one, but
someone posted a </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">trailer</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
on </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">my
social media page</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">OH.
EM. G-STRING. It was as sexy as a sexy number of sexy things having a
sex-off is </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">S</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">exville,
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">S</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">exylvania.
And yes, in the trailer I saw, you could argue that the two gentlemen
performers are being objectified. That their bodies (their beaut</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">i</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">ful,
beautiful bodies) are being used as a commodity, with no
consideration for their personalities, their strengths, their
weaknesses, their hopes, dreams and aspirations. BUT. The difference,
Peter love. THE MASSIVE </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">GLARING,</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
DIFFERENCE. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">THE
DIFFERENCE</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
BIGGER THAN CHANNING TATUM'S GLORIOUSLY BITEABLE BICEPS – is that
men who DON'T look like Channing Tatum have been </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
are </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">fairly
widely represented in the fields of politics, medicine, sci</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">e</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">nce,
culture, sports, arts and literature. Men who don't look like
Channing Tatum </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">haven't
had t</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">o</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
endure watchin</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">g</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
teen </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">movies
about </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">boys
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">their
age </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">who
don't look like Channing Tatum, taking off their glasses, getting a
haircut, miraculously BECOMING Channing Tatum, then landing a rich
girlfriend, rending any academic or social qualification</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">s</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
superfluous. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Men
who look</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
like </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Channing
Tatum </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">are</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
not the most widely-documented definition of male power and male
success that young boys have as a role model</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">s</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">.
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Men
who don't look like Channing Tatum –</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
as well as men who do in fact - </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">aren't
<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-30112814">paid </a></span></span></span><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-30112814"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">£100
per week </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">less</span></span></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
than women, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">irrespective
of</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
whether they look like Charlize Theron (</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">God
I </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">love
that woman). </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Do
you understand that now, Peter? Do you?</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Now
the thing is, I know that you think you've got something in your
artillery (or at least you would have if you'd read the blog,
something I can't see much evidence of.)</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This:</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">P.P.S.
You're not 5”11”.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">BODYSHAMING.
HEIGHTSHAMING. MANSHAMING. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Well....no.
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This
comment was made to highlight to this chap that while he was happy to
criticise my body (which, by the way, I had been upfront and honest
about on my dating profile with full body pictures), he had fibbed
about his own. His profile said he was 5”11. He wasn't. I even
(very gently) broached this with him on the date. He needn't have
lied because I didn't agree to go on a date with him because of his
height (in fact, most of my boyfriends have been 5”9 or shorter).
However, without that background information, I can understand how
that comment could be misinterpreted. Please forgive me, Peter. I've
never gone viral before. If I'd known the blog was going to be read
over 170,000 times all over the world, I would have made that bit
extra clear. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">If
you'd like to read the blog, <a href="http://www.iwillpayonepoundforyourstory.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/tinder-date.html">thar
she blows:</a></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">If
you'd like to know more </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">my
campaign against bodyshaming and bullyi</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">n</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">g
please visit my website for </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
</span></span><a href="http://www.michellethomas.org/healthy-happy-hot-campaign.html"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Healthy.
Happy. Hot. </i></span></span></span></a>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-30512592337117130622015-07-03T09:49:00.000-07:002015-07-05T05:02:13.226-07:00Tinder Date.<div dir="ltr">
<pre></pre>
<div style="line-height: 21.299999237060547px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Monday I went on a first date with a
man I met on Tinder. We met in a pub. After a couple of drinks we
moved on to a restaurant. He bought me dinner. We strolled arm in
arm on the South Bank. He walked me to the train station, where we
kissed. It wasn't earth-shattering, but all in all it was a fairly
standard Pleasant Evening.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next day, I received the following
message from him (be warned, it gets pretty nasty).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Hey Michelle, sorry been super busy
at work today hun.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Thanks for a wonderful evening last
night. I really enjoyed your company and actually adore you. You're
cheeky and funny and just the sort of girl I would love to go out
with if only my body and mind would let me. But I fear it won't.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>I'm not going to bull***t you... I
f***ing adore you Michelle and I think you're the prettiest looking
girl I've ever met. <b>But my mind gets turned on my someone slimmer.
</b></i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Shallow? It's not meant to be. It's
the same reaction you get when you read a great author or see an
amazing image, or listen to a piece of music you love, it has that
instant reaction in you that makes you crave more. </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><b>So whilst I am hugely turned on
by your mind, your face, your personality (and God...I really, really
am), I can't say the same about your figure. </b>So I can sit there
and flirt and have the most incredibly fun evening, but I have this
awful feeling that when we got undressed my body would let me down. I
don't want that to happen baby. I don't want to be lying there next
to you, and you asking me why I'm not hard. </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>There are certain triggers that fire
my imagination into life and your wit and intelligence are the
beginning of that process which would inevitably end up in the
bedroom. With just one result....</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>I'm so disappointed in myself
Michelle because I've genuinely not felt this way about anyone in
ages, but I'm trying to be honest with you without sounding like a
total knobhead.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>We could be amazing friends, we
could flirt and joke and adore each other and.... f*** me... <b>I
would marry you like a shot if you were a slip of a girl </b>because
what you have in that mind of yours is utterly unique, and I really
really love it.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>I guess what I'm trying to say is
that I'm trying to avoid bigger pain in the future by telling you now
so we don't have to go through that embarrassment. I'm a man... With
all the red hot lusts of a man and all the failings of a man and I'm
sure of my own body and its needs.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Please try and forgive me. I adore
you xx</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's taken me a few days to sit down
and respond. I've been busy.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<u><b>Dear Man I Met On Tinder.</b></u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was on another date when I received
your message. He returned from the loo to find me in a flood of
tears. He was lovely, but baffled, and hasn't been in touch since,
funnily enough.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You don't have to fancy me. We all have
a good friend who we look at ruefully and think “you're lovely, but
you just don't tickle my pickle”. We wish we were attracted to
them, but our bodies and our brains don't work like that. And that's
fine.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What isn't fine is the fact that, after
a few hours in my company, you took the time to write this utterly
uncalled-for message. It's nothing short of sadistic. Your tone is
saccharine and condescending, but the forensic detail in which you
express your disgust at my body is truly grotesque. The only possible
objective for writing it is to wound me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And I'm ashamed to say, for a few
moments, it worked. You stirred a dormant fear that every woman who
was ever a teenage girl has – that it doesn't matter how funny you
are, how clever, how kind, how passionate, how loyal, how determined
or adventurous or vibrant – if you're a stone overweight, no one
will ever find you desirable.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I like the way I look. I don't look
like Charlize Theron, and that's fine - I look like me, and I like
myself (I'm sure I'd like Charlize Theron, too if I ever met her. I
hear good things).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You may think are all my profile
pictures are "FGASs" (That's Fat Girl Angle Shots –
pictures from angles that slim and flatter the girl. Because men only
ever use candid, brutally-lit, unfiltered pics). But I think they're
a fair representation. And I'm pretty upfront about who I am: I
describe myself as a woman who loves pizza, and include links to my<a href="https://instagram.com/msmthomas/">Instagram </a>page, where
I have the #everybodysready bikini shots I took on my 30<sup>th</sup>
birthday. I like to think I come across as a confident, happy woman.
But could this be the very reason you have targeted me? Did you see
me and think “She has far too high an opinion of herself, she needs
bringing down a peg or two”? I have to ask - we all know the
internet is a dangerous place to be a woman with opinions (I
discovered this first hand when I ventured a response to those
obnoxious bloody adverts).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I showed your message to friends who
expressed shock, horror, embarrassment on your behalf, and a desire
to cause you actual physical harm. One male friend told me I have a
lovely bottom “if unmarriageable”. I laughed with them. Then I
cried in my Slimming World group. That's right! Slimming World! You
see, I already KNOW that I'm overweight. I can tell you exactly how
overweight I am – 20 pounds. I've already lost 15, and I've a stone
and a half to go. I'm happy with that. I will get rid of it, safely
and healthily. Does that mean that I can't love and enjoy my body
now? F*** no.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'll never see or hear from you again
(you may feel the need to respond to this blog. Please don't. There's
nothing you can say that will make me think that you're not a
disgrace to your gender).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What truly concerns me, the real reason
I'm responding so publicly, is the fact that you have a 13 year old
daughter. A talented illustrator, who collects Manga comics and wants
to visit Japan as soon as possible.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I want you to encourage your daughter
to love, enjoy, and care for her body. It belongs to her and only
her. Praise her intellect, and her creativity. Push her to push
herself and to be fearless. Give her the tools to develop a
bomb-proof sense of self-esteem so that if (I'll be kind. I'll say
“if”.) the time comes that a small, unhappy man attempts to
corrode it, she can respond as I do now.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Simon.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Kiss.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Exquisitely.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Unmarriagable.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Arse.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
P.S. “Slip of a girl”? CHRIST
ALIVE, that's creepy.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
P.P.S. You're not 5'11</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com228tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-23002541478360087382014-07-19T06:09:00.000-07:002014-07-19T06:22:15.071-07:00How it all began.Hello.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's been a while since I updated this
blog, so I thought I'd drop in with a little note about the current
state of play.<br />
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It's all been kicking off.<a href="http://unbound.co.uk/books/i-will-pay-one-pound-for-your-story"> A book of One Pound Stories is currently being crowdfunded by Unbound</a>. It's very
exciting – if (when! WHEN!) we hit the target, the book will be
published. Printed and distributed to people who've paid for it. And
to shops where other people can buy the book. My book. With my name
on it. Which I've made. Blimey.</div>
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It's all slightly unbelievable.
</div>
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In the mornings I work in a café from
6am – 12pm. A couple of days a weeks I work 6am-5pm to make up my
hours, but it means that I have a lots of afternoons off to work on
the project.
</div>
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If you proposed the story of my life as
a writer/waitress as a film treatment it would be rejected for being
too clichéd. It hasn't always been like this. I've had many
different jobs in theatre, comedy and opera - producer, promoter,
agent, stage manager, actor, runner, props mistress.....Good jobs.
Fairly steady. Well-paid. The problem was that none of these jobs
left me any time for my own creative projects. Initially I was
excited to be a part of such exciting work – I worked in some of
the most prestigious venues in the country, got to travel, met some
amazing people. But while it was my job to help others realise their
artistic goals, mine would always take second place. I was very good
at my job(s), but when I became aware of the risk that my
frustration would turn to resentment and undermine my good work, I
knew that it was time to make big changes.
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<br />
I began One Pound Stories when I was made
redundant from a position in an opera company a few years ago. Living in
London I needed to line up another job, fast. I sent dozens –
hundreds – of CVs a week, seemingly into the ether. I had a
housemate who was unemployed at the same time. We'd stay in our rooms
hunched over our laptops, grunting at each other of we crossed paths
on the way to the loo or in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to
boil.
</div>
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<br />
Apart from trawling through job
websites I had no idea what to do with myself.
</div>
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<br />
This went on for a few weeks.
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<br />
Depression is a contrary little shit.
Just when I needed to call on the backup reserves of positivity and
stoicism that had seen me through countless adversities before, it
saunters in, squats in my brain, and croons at me that I'm
unemployable, lazy, stupid, unimaginative, dull, unpopular and
doomed, doomed, doomed.
<br />
</div>
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I needed to get out of the flat. I
needed to meet and talk to (apart from the grumpy housemate who
shared my horrible predicament). I had to do something for myself,
not just for the nameless, faceless recipients of my life's work on
two sides of A4.
</div>
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<br />
It was time to take affirmative action.</div>
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<br />
It was time to consult the Big Bag For
Life.
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<br />
Here is the Big Bag For Life.</div>
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For years I'd been scribbling down
ideas in notebooks and on scraps of paper, envelopes, paper bags, old
Christmas and birthday cards, and putting them away to think about
later. “I'll do something with them one day, when I have time”
I'd told myself. I'd lugged this growing bag of potential from house
to house, every year or so emptying it to check its progress, then
quietly refilling it. I had stacks, reams of the stuff. </div>
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Most of it
was useless. </div>
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Stage directions. Badly scrawled illustrations. Flyers.
Tickets. Postcards.</div>
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Phone numbers for costume stores, balloon makers
and printers. Some terrible, <i>terrible</i> poetry.</div>
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Some of it was
years and years and years old. It documented not only every project
I'd worked on, every city I'd visited, every home I'd had, every
diary entry, but every half-formed idea, every piece of research,
every shopping list, every reminder to send this email or call my
parents, every bus timetable, every piece of banal, inconsequential,
irrelevant fluff that had crossed my mind.
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On my knees, in a mire of yellowing
pages, I got to work. Trawling through the pile, salvaging what was
worthwhile (photographs, bad teenage poetry), discarding what was not
(letters from a toxic ex).
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I was looking for inspiration. Looking
for a sign from my past self that proclaimed: This Is What You Should
Do Next.
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Then I found it.</div>
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Written in the corner of an old
notebook from an old job from years and years earlier was a single
line, a barely-formed thought, jotted down and immediately forgotten.
“I will buy your stories for £1”.
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It would be easy enough, I thought. And
relatively cheap – for the price of a yoga class that would last an
hour I could buy supplies to make a sign and eight stories that'd
keep me occupied for a few days.
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So that's what I did.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I bought card and marker pens to make a
sign. I set up this blog. I handmade business cards with green card
and gold ink with the site and email address on them to give to
participants.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I enlisted Josh, the grumpy unemployed
flatmate, to come with me to offer moral support, which he did in
good faith and with good spirit. Thanks, Josh. On a cold day in
Greenwich park in January 2012, I collected 15 stories in two hours.
You can read them <a href="http://www.iwillpayonepoundforyourstory.blogspot.co.uk/2012_01_01_archive.html">here.</a> <br />
</div>
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I was excited. I spread the word. This
experience that I'd created for myself strengthened my CV and got me
a couple of small-scale arts jobs. I repeated the experiment in other
locations. I planned a nationwide tour. Then in July I was
unexpectedly offered a full-time job as an agent with an entertainment company I'd done ad hoc
work for before. It was a good job for a well-respected company. The
money wasn't great to start with, but I was told there could be
potential for a rise. And surely having a good, steady job in a
company whose work I believed in was better than doing well-paid but
crappy promo work for energy suppliers and supermarkets? It would
mean postponing the tour, but I'd get around to it....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
So. Steady job. Good job. Good status.
Low pay. High pressure. High responsibility. Long hours. No time for
own creative projects. Initially excited to be part of exciting work.
Prestigious venues. Travel. Amazing people. Help others' artistic
goals. Mine second place. Very good at job. Frustration. Resentment.
Undermine my good work.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Enough.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
It was time to make big changes. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's all slightly unbelievable.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
In the mornings I work in a café from
6am – 12pm. A couple of days a weeks I work 6am-5pm to make up my
hours, but it means that I have a lots of afternoons off to work on
the project.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's all been kicking off. A book of
these stories is currently being crowdfunded by Unbound. It's very
exciting – if (when! WHEN!) we hit the target, the book will be
published. Printed and distributed to people who've paid for it. And
to shops where other people can buy the book. My book. With my name
on it. Which I've made. Blimey.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-48070427667105119862014-06-15T05:57:00.003-07:002014-06-15T06:10:24.419-07:00Father's Day. <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So my day today. So I woke up at. Four
o'clock in the morning to go to the fish market. Yeah I went to
Billingsgate today. To see the errr the kind of mighty errr. Like
towers up there and err. Bring back some fish. And then errr. And
then. My son's grandparents are down today from Katmandu flying in.
Hmm. So we've err. All dust him off. Cleaned him up. And I'm gonna
take him down to the farm. So he can see err the dogs. Well as he as
far as he's concerned all animals are dogs. So. So we're gonna see
the sheep which is a dog. And err the pony which is another dog. Err.
And err. And that's it. The day he was born was a disaster yeah I
missed the birth. Yeah I think the one thing you learn is that err.
Err pregnancies cannot be planned. So my wife was late. Err which is
quite normal for like err. New. New mothers. Uhm and. We went into
the hospital. For a err I can't even remember what it was called now
but it was just to speed up the process. Uhm so she was in labour
for. I think about twenty four hours. Erm and err around that period
I didn't sleep. She was hallucinating. Erm. On gas. Saying all
bizarre stuff. Even stories of Tom Hanks in the desert. Err. Huh. And
erm kind of in the next morning when I was just kind of slouched on
the couch. Her mum and her sister came in and she saw me there. And I
must have looked like a right state. She said look. You know you need
to go home and get a shower. And eat something. And I said no I can't
go. And the nurse was like well you know it's gonna be another six
hours or so. So they just kind of pushed me out. Ermm. About half an
hour later I was stuck in traffic and I heard a phone call just
literally as I was outside my house just saying. That erm. She's got
to have an emergency caesarean. So. Erm. I kind of rushed back to the
hospital. Just kind of rushed back. But unfortunately I missed. The
birth. So erm. I think at the time my wife's mother took my place.
Very stressed out. Didn't know what she was doing. And that was it.
So I missed your birth, boy. He was born with lots of hair. Yeah.
Yeah unbelievable amount of hair. In fact I think he had more hair
than me. He's charming. Beautiful. But a little devil as well.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-52047742283099339882014-06-01T04:24:00.001-07:002014-06-01T04:24:55.897-07:00Electric Theatre.
Ok so I run a theatre company. Uhm.
Called. Creative Electric. And it started because I. Worked for a
theatre that put a lot of censorship in places over kids. And I
really didn't like that so I quite. Spectacularly quit one day. And a
week later thought oh God what have I done I've lost my salary and my
job and shit what have I done. Erm. And I got. A phone call from one
of the kid's mums saying. D'you wanna come round for your tea tonight
we know you'll be a bit like. Sad that you've. You're not there
anymore. So I went round. And I walked into the house and every
single member of my youth theatre was in her living room. And all
their parents had withdrawn them and they asked me to set up a new
theatre company for them. And that's. That's my job now I've been
running that for five years.
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-33372506385083220002014-05-30T09:47:00.001-07:002014-05-30T09:47:46.243-07:00White Crow.
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Right. Right errr. I don't know what.
What sort of story. Anything random. Right we was. We was walking
d'ya know near the err. D'ya know the err Crystal Palace the old
build- the old palace where that was built. We was walking down there
and there was three crows. And they was all in the middle of the
field like. Obviously there was. There was three crows and there was
one big one. One massive crow and the dog ran and chased got hold and
it got hold of this crow. But he didn't kill it he was just playing
with it yeah and he was patting this crow about and this crow like
just all it's feathers went bright white. All went bright white d'you
know 'cause of shock 'cause of 'cause their feathers change 'cause of
shock. And then we seen this crow like every single day for the past
two weeks. D'you know like the same crow. The same crow like ev- yeah
every every single day we seen the same crow what the dog was playing
with. And every time he'd go over it'd fly off yeah. And it seemed
like it was actually following us you know like trying to like. I
don't know what's the word for it. Tryin'. Yeah like harass us
exactly that. Exactly tryin' to get the dog back yeah tryin' to. Wind
him up like flying in the sky tryin' to wind him up. But yeah yeah
that was. I thought that was quite strange. That was in this park.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-47706785376822835712014-05-29T08:47:00.000-07:002014-06-12T09:14:17.520-07:00SoteiraOkaaay. Ahm. I didn't know what I
wanted to do for a career when I left university so. I decided to
volunteer to go on a mission boat that was sailing to the Canary
Islands from Cornwall. Despite the fact that I'm not very religious.
And. I. I also don't I'd never actually been on a boat before. And
the boat was a hundred years old it was called Soteira which means
salvation in Greek. And the people who were on. Were on it were
obviously deep deep deeply religious. And we set out. Err probably in
the spirit of blind faith into what was. A brewing storm. And. It got
worse and worse and worse and. Was actually a force ten storm which
is like a hurricane. Ahm. We got stuck in the Bay of Biscay which is
like. A notoriously bad place to get stuck for four days. And. During
which time. The boat completely fell apart. Ah the main sail tore in
half. All of the bilge pumps which is what pumps the boat when it
starts to fill up with water started to fail 'cause the electrics
were wired badly. Uhm. All of the caulking came out of the panels so
the boat leaked like a sieve and everyone got wet no one slept for
five days. Ah one person got shell shock. Another person split their
head open. Another person dislocated their shoulder. And two other
English people died in the storm actually 'cause they'd set out in a
much smaller boat. Ah but we eventually washed up in a place called A
Coruna off Northern Spain five days later. And yes.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-57216695697831984192014-05-29T08:46:00.000-07:002014-05-29T08:46:08.132-07:00 Llond bocs o ugeiniau ceiniog.<br />
Wel. Pan o'n I o'n I'n. Llundain yn y.
Coleg. Ag y. Er mwyn talu'n for' trw' coleg o'n i'n gweithio mewn bar
yn Elephant and Castle. Lle eitha. Rough. Ar y pryd. Ond y. 'Neud y'n
job yn digon da ges i'n g'neud yn Duty Manager so un dydd o'n I yna
y. Rheoli dim ond fi a un hogan arall. O'dd yn hogan eitha. Bach fel
fi hefyd. Ballet dancer so. O'n ni ddim rhyw. Lawer o iws. Os odd na
unrhyw drwbl. Anyway odd hi'n eitha tawel lawr staer ag o'na. Ddau
foi. ifanc yn dod a mynd i'r bar fyny staer. Dim problem. Odd hi'n
eitha tawel. O'na pool table a felly o'n I just yn meddwl bod nhw'n
chwarae a ga'l drinc be' bynnag. Wedyn. Rhyw. Chwarter awr wedyn nes
I weld nhw'n mynd. Lawr y staer cefn y bar oedd yn eitha
anghyffredin. Oh my god ma' hynna'n od, ma' 'na rhywbeth 'di digwydd
man 'yn. So es I fyny'r staer. A. Odden nhw. Wedi. Torri fewn i'r
pool table. Dwi'm yn gwybod sut ma rhywyn yn g'neud hynna. Wedi
tynnu'r holl beth arian allan. A just 'di mynd a fo. Efo nhw. Allan
trw'r drws gefn. So. Dyna lle o'n I a'r hogan fach arall yn mynd. Be
'dan ni fod I neud so. Goro. Ffonio'r heddlu a wedyn yr whole shebang
fanno. Be' ma' rhywyn yn 'neud efo. Llond bocs o. Ugeiniau ceiniog.
Just mynd mewn i'r banc. Pobol eitha. Od. I gael. Mae rhaid mi ddeud.
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-49416726219392174082014-05-13T12:57:00.003-07:002014-05-13T12:57:39.804-07:00Magi a'r Lygoden Fawr. <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Ti fydd rhaid 'i deud hi. Na. O. Ym.
Magi. Efo'r lygoden fawr. Oedd. Wel weda'i wrtho ti be' oedd hwnnw.
Ie. Wel. Ie. Wel. Magi oedd honno gwraig Elwyn wel' di. Ac oedd 'di
bod yn chwys diferol. Yn cae gwair neu rwbeth. A. A mi ddo'th i'r ty
wedi blino. A mi feddyliodd am fynd i'r bwtri odden ni'n cadw ym.
Llaeth enwyn. Ar ol g'neud. G'neud ym. G'neud menyn wsti. Yn y bwtri
'ma. A Duwcs n'de. Ag w' ti'n gweld ma'. Ma' ym. Llaeth enwyn yn mynd
yn. Yn. Yn mynd. Suddo lawr. Ma' o'n o'n ar y top 'sti. Ma' rhaid ti.
I g'mysgu o cyn 'i. Cyn i yfed o i ti. I ti. Ga'l y. Y tew. A'r y. Y
tenne'. Wel' di o'r llaeth enwyn 'ma. A mi a'th os gwel' di'n dda. A
Duw. Mi fydd hi'n. Yfed. Lashed 'nde. Ag a'th hi'n nol i 'iste. Odd
'i'n gweld o'n. Mor dda. Mi ath hi'n nol wedyn. Mi ath hi'n nol. Y.
Be' ti'n galw o. Second helping. A be' ddari 'blaw. 'Neud. Feddwl
bod ganddi. Rhyw. Gadjeten. Yn troi'r. Beth. A Duwcs pan ddari. O'dd
hi'n clywed rwbeth. Yn y gwaelod. A mi nath hi edrych a be nath hi
ond codi. Efo'r. Llwy fawr ma neu be bynnag o'dd ganddi. A be o'dd
hi. Llygoden fawr. Wel odd 'i'n. Odd 'i'n sal ar ol cofia. Oedd y
ll'goden fawr ma' rhaid bod 'ne di fod drws 'n gored. A'th i mewn i'r
bwtri a 'di boddi yn y llaeth enwyn 'ma. Ond ti fydd rhaid i deud hi
cofia. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-9888480817100099972014-05-11T09:24:00.002-07:002014-05-11T09:25:07.613-07:00Chronicles of Awkward. <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This is kind of like. Kind of like a
Caz is really awkward. Thing. I go. Go to this thing called five.
Five rhythms it's like a. Like a dance. Um. It's like a dance
movement thing you go. And you're in a room. And there's like about.
A hundred and fifty other people in there. All just dancing however
you want. And it's all very like tribal. Rhythmic like there's like.
Staccato rhythm. And. There's like. Lyrical rhythm and you just
dance. It's just free form dancing however you want. And it's
awesome. The other day I saw a guy at at one of the. This is a side
note. Not the actual. Story. But he had a tshirt on that said I am
Awesome. And he looked like Jesus. And he was pretty awesome he was
just like cutting sick on the dancefloor. Anyway. So. I was getting
really onto it and I was working up a bit of a sweat and I was
feeling a bit thirsty. And so. I went to. The sideline to like. Grab
a drink of water. And I was 'cause this is like the day after I'd
walked a hundred kilometres. So. I was. Don't know how I found myself
in a room dancing after walking one hundred kilometres. I just
thought this'll be awesome. So I went to the sidelines and was. Just
like bopping along and the only. Dance move. That my legs. Could
really cope with was. Wide standing with like my butt sticking out
so. A bit like this. Like this. So I was doing that in the sidelines.
Sticking my butt out shaking my butt really getting into it. Just
while I was drinking my water. So I'm doing that. And I look down. I
can see something moving at my feet. I look down. And there was a
young teenage girl. Sitting reading her book. Right directly behind
me. And so I was like. Grinding in her face. While she was trying to
read her book. And I was like oh my god I was so embarrassed. I was
just like. 'Cause I was getting so into it. That I was just like
jiggling my butt right in her face. And she wasn't say she didn't say
anything she just sat there with her book and she was just like. I
just like turned around and I was just like. Oh my god I am so so
sorry I'm so sorry and she was just laughing laughing laughing
laughing laughing. Anyway. So. That's a. That was quite hilarious.
'Cause she probably. This little girl was probably. She probably goes
along and sits on the sidelines while her hippy parents. Are like.
You know dancing and prancing. While Purple and Sundance. Her
parents. Are like. Ooooooh. So she's reading her book and then some
old lady comes and sticks her arse. In her face. So. Just another one
to add to my awkward chronicles. Chronicles of Awkward.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-40624365798906654162014-04-28T11:20:00.002-07:002014-04-28T11:28:43.443-07:00Salt Beef Jack, The Krays and Richard Branson. <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm from Southport.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I lead with my right.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My Dad who was in the army.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He lead with his left.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In the army they lead with the left.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He got in with the Krays.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They got in with him for protection
money.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He was in his late sixties this is in
the sixties.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He called it The Cellar Club.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Cause it was in a cellar.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Salt Beef Jack they called him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Ideal premises.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One big part.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Big stage and all that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All the greats played there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Rolling Stones.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Kinks?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yeah The Kinks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He managed The Kinks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All these people.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I swear down.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Dusty Springfield.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Petula Clark.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sandy Shaw.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Not in the West End so he done well.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I need someone to do a documentary.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
About my old man.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Richard Branson.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I stayed at his house in Oxford.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Anyway went down</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Went down there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was snowing and everything.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And he said stay and all that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was only fourteen.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of all the people</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And all that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yeah I've had a hard life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A hard one but a good one and all that.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I need to get to Kingston and all that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Find some people to put it together and
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
put it to Richard Branson 'cause he
would definitely be interested.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And all that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My dad yeah.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
No-one’s ever done anything on it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My old man.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My dad was ranked number three number
four in the fifties.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Professional fighter.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Boxing and fencing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Kinda good for reflexes yeah.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I got kids.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But in foster care yeah.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I need a bit of money though yeah.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Bit of rentage.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Not a lot like.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Fifty quid a week yeah.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There's no middle class in London.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You either got it or you ain’t.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Imagine a mortgage now three hundred
grand or summink it's madness.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You can't beat home honestly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I like the countryside.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Kent.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cambridgeshire.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nottingham is a city surrounded by
countryside.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You know lace.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Like lace curtains and that.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Industrial revolution and all that.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thank you.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Can you spare any more change please.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thank you.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You're a good person, I can tell that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You're a kind person I can see that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thank you.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thank you.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-11047839365514882982014-04-25T05:07:00.000-07:002014-04-25T05:07:01.839-07:00Brown Trout
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's a late May Sunday evening. Chuck
the tackle in the back of the car and scoot across to Bleachfield
Corner. Tackle up and tie on a grouse and orange. Not one I use
often. Off to the river ah. General's beat. Lower Pavilion. Know it
the. Lies and runs like the back of me hand. It's a dull. Humid
evening. Ideal for fishing. After about ten minutes. Shallow streamy
water. A suicidal fish. Attaches itself to my grouse and orange. This
was BIG. I thought it might be a sea-trout but they jump and tug and
usually break your line. I thought it might be a grilse.
One-sea-winter salmon. But they're also. Quite lively. And usually
break your line. This went to the bottom and sulked. Classic brown
trout behaviour. Applied pressure. It moved and gradually came in
probably taking about five minutes to beach in the shallows where I
was standing. It was a brown trout. Bigger than any I'd caught
previously. About 60 cm long. I reckoned ah. Conservatively it
weighed about. Four pounds. This is a good fish for middle Tweed. The
second this fish took I determined I wasn't going to kill it. It
un-hooked easily and I held it in streamy water for a while. Allowing
it to recover from the struggle. It flicked its great spade of a tail
and swam away to. Do its bit for another year in. Maintaining the
trout population. As is often the case. When you get a big one you
get bugger-all else on the same occasion and so it proved. Glad I let
it go. And I haven't killed a fish since.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-62774773396343260392014-04-24T08:17:00.000-07:002014-04-24T08:18:01.542-07:00Spitalfields. So
it's the winter of 1968-69 a particularly cold one err.
Term has finished and I'm working for a. Firm.
Doing
a traffic survey around Spitalfields Market fruit and veg market. My
grant's blown and I'm near broke. And
the job is the only way I can muster some cash for the festive season
including. The
price of getting to Tyneside on Christmas
eve. The work involves standing at set locations and
recording traffic movements. Four wheeled vehicles. Six wheeled
vehicles. Multi-axle vehicles. Around the market. There are about
thirty of us doing it in two shifts seven 'til three. Then three
'till eleven you get. An hour break and head for the Wimpey bar for
a burger and coffee. Spun out for an hour to try to get warm again.
Spitalfields is interesting territory. Transit camp for immigrants
to London. Huguenot silk weavers. East European Jewish tailors.
Bangladeshi rag-trade sweat shops. East of the market was 'Ripper
Territory' ah. In 1968 it was not greatly different in its. Dark and
dingy streets from what it probably was eighty years before. Christ
Church a Hawksmoor. Near derelict. Since restored to a very high
standard. Stood on the north-west corner on Commercial Street. Ah. A
busy pitch that one you got millions of passing vehicles to record.
The population comprised meths. And anything else. Drinking dossers
who lived on rough ground just outside the market huddled 'round
bonfires. The. Local. Corps of. Ladies of the night. Hundreds of down
and outs. Queued each night at the Salvation Army hostel in Middlesex
Street. Try to get a bed for the night and a bowl of soup. One day
the drinkers lost one of their own who fell into the bonfire. Dead
drunk and. Decidedly dead thereafter. It shook the survey team but
not the drunks. So. There I am. Late one night. Sat on an orange
crate outside a pub in Bishopsgate. Conscientiously entering ticks in
columns for cars taxis. Light goods vehicles, heavy wagons etc.
Freezing cold. Two-hours past the Wimpey break. And one of the local
ladies of the night comes out of the pub with a glass of whisky and
hands it to me. If I'd been wearing a hat
I would have taken it off to her. Made
enough to finance. Retention.
Of
room in digs over the Christmas
holiday period and a few quid for the holiday period. Decided to
hitch home. Got
tube to Barnet early on Christmas
eve, Then
bus to A1 junction. Then
scored. Super-lift
from blonde
lady to A68 junction west of Darlington. Arriving
there as just getting dark. Further
lift prospects poor, so. Got
bus into Darlington. Bus
to Newcastle and bus home. To
south-east Northumberland.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-29066773529384851132014-04-19T05:51:00.000-07:002014-04-19T05:51:52.932-07:00Connemara Mary.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">I used to work as an administrator in the Health Service. A early, my second only my second job was at St Mary's Hospital, formerly Paddington General. Now defunct it was demolished about 1990 this was 1973. It was a 500 plus beds general teaching hospital with an A&E. Maternity unit and a psychiatric unit. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"> In those days we had a Saturday morning rota when there was always an administrator in the hospital. This was common practice. We also worked New Year's day in those days. Pay was about £1,000 per year, with about £120 London Weighting. The Saturday morning rota was to make sure the hospital was ticking over OK, information on bed occupancy was available to catering, which bulk-fed patients on the Nightingale style wards. Deal with any crises arising and deal with administration of hospital deaths and requests for autopsies on patients who had died on Friday or Saturday morning. Ah. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">'Mary's' was in North Paddington, a very Irish part of London the. Hospital Secretary. Was second generation anglo-Irish, about half the nursing and midwifery staff were first generation Irish girls. Amongst other areas it served as the district general hospital for Kilburn. In Kilburn High Road, at the weekends, you stepped over the drunks lying outside pubs. I know, I once walked from Edgware Road to where I lived at the time in Colindale, about nine miles, on a Saturday night Sunday morning. I was Assistant Hospital Secretary.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So, this Saturday morning, 'bout summer 1973, I'm the duty administrator. I get a call from the Maternity unit, to say they had an infant death where the medics wanted an autopsy, the mother was on the ward.<br style="line-height: 22px;" />Procedure was that you got a consent form ready, picked up the hospital notes from their last known location, went to see the relative to offer condolences. Get their consent for an autopsy. So went to the ward which had rung; they gave me the notes, which, as with all maternity cases were the mother's notes. The mother's name was Mary; the notes comprised only a casualty card which said she'd arrived in A&E, with abdominal pain, collapsed on the floor and gave birth to a still-born infant. 'Did not know she was pregnant'. No address, no date of birth, no GP, 'no-nothing-else'.Met Mary in the ward interview room. She looked as if she had lived through heaven and hell; she might have been any age from 16 to 35. Went through the prescribed speech...need to find out why your baby died; gain information to help others etc. I don't think Mary understood any of it and I recall her saying. Very little and that in very poor English or mixed Irish and English. She gave an address in Connemara and duly signed the form with her 'X'. Today. Ireland is accepted as having one of the best education systems in Europe. In the late 60s it hadn't. I knew young Irish lads, portering at UCH, who read the pictures in the Beano and Dandy. I encountered Mary for about five minutes, yet can recall her face and have wondered, often, what became of her. Did she go home to Connemara? Did her family take her back? Had they thrown her out in the first place for bringing shame on the family? Did she end up on the streets in London? Did the pathologists write the obvious PM report - baby died from lack of ante natal care, mother's poor nutrition, mother's no-fault-of-her-own ignorance? Did it make any difference....to anybody?</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-85296641874156455552014-04-11T05:57:00.000-07:002014-04-11T06:00:11.974-07:00David Tennant. <div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Ok.
Ahm. I used to write quite regularly for a number of. Film and TV
magazines. Including. The Doctor Who magazine like a lot of my. Friends
and contemporaries I grew up as a fan of the programme. And. It just
so happened. That. That meant I was the. First person. To. Ever talk.
To. David Tennant about being. In Doctor Who. And. I've spoken to a lot
of actors. About. Taking part in those productions by then I was
going. Regularly to the recordings. And. They would all say very
polite things about. Oh oh it's lovely to be in the programme I.
It's a. It's a super show and I've always liked it. Ah and they would
sound very genuine as actors do. David Tennant was quite different
because. I. Just asked him the standard question. How do you feel
about the. The job and he said “This is fantastic!”. He was the
most. Enthusiastic person I'd ever met about. Most enthusiastic
about. Being involved in it even though very. This is before. The
programme. Came back onto TV. Nine years ago this is about ten eleven
years ago. After the recording we went over to the pub across the
road. And. Had a couple of drinks with. The small cast involved my
friend who was the producer who'd known me for years so we just sat
around. Having a drink or two and at one point. I'd. I'd said ooh. I
guess it's my round. I think I've got enough cash I don't even know
why I said that out loud. And David. Overheard. And said oh. Here's a
tenner in case you don't. So I went off to the bar with. David
Tennant's ten pound note in my back pocket. And I got home that night
and found it was still there. I hadn't. Hadn't needed his money but I
completely forgot. Honestly forgot to give it back. To him. At the
end of the evening I felt very bad about this. He's not. That. Famous
at the time. This is before he was very famous. At the end of the
year the. Production company had a party for all the people who'd
been involved in the productions. That year and I got invited. And.
Couldn't help asking. The. ah. Guy who ran the company. Is David
Tennant going to be there? Is David going to be at this party. 'Cause
I had this terrible. Burning in my conscience. This money I'd taken
off this. Relatively well known actor but not someone who could just
throw money around. He said he would be. Turned up to the bar where
the party was being held. Spotted David in the crowd talking to
someone else. Went up to him. Like a magnet. And said. David. This is
your ten pound note. And he said. Is it? Ok. And then took his ten
pound note back off me. And that's my story. Absolutely true. </span>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829293842244407076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2418169554034866430.post-72879963839234281662014-04-08T09:17:00.000-07:002014-04-08T09:17:32.660-07:00Tour de France.<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">So
right errr I've got a really good scar right on my ankle which I
would show you. But I can't I can't 'cause I've got tights on. Don't
wanna take me tights off. But I've got a really good scar on my ankle
I really like scars. 'Cause they 'cause they tell a story. So it's
about this big. You can't see that on your thing but it's about the
size of that ten. Ten centimetres. Shut up I'm being interviewed knob
jockey. Knob jockey! Love that word. Erm. And so basically when I was
about four years old I used to live with my dad on part of the
longest constant road in England. That longest constant road is now
going to be used on the fourth of July 2014 for the Tour de France!
And the tour de France is going past my Dad's house and we're gonna
have a party. We have cyclists going past it all the time. So but let
me tell you a darker side to the longest constant road. Oooooh
de-de-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. Well. Bells, that. Sinister
bells. See that's the arc of the narrative. So. About four years old,
primary school halfway down the hill down the hill me and my dad
lived at the top of the hill. Me dad used to take me down on the back
of his bike 'cause that's the tour de France route. Everyday for
school he'd say do you want to take the car or shall we take the
bike. And one. Fateful day. I decided. Bike. Now the way he'd take me
down on the bike. Was on. A towel. On the crossbar. Sidesaddle. Yeah.
So there's my dad, there's handlebars, there's me flying down the
road on a towel. Halfway down the hill to school. My. Little four
year old leg gets caught in the spokes of the wheel. It's prosthetic.
It is I can't show you though. I'm a bit embarrassed now. That's why
I can't. I wear long skirts. My leg got caught in the spokes. Of the
wheel. The bike ground to a halt and my leg was in it. Yeah. And my
leg was broke in three places. Yeah. My dad broke his arm my dad went
flying the bike ground to a halt and my dad went. He was a
professional violinist and he never played the violin again. Then.
Interestingly the parents of a boy I hated at school. Happened to be
driving past. Uhm. And picked us up, they picked us up and took us to
the hospital. And me and that boy had a bond from then on. But also I
couldn't, because like. I was so little I was only a small child. I
was about I was four I was four yeah. Almost five. Between four and
five. I was four. But because I was so little they couldn't give me
crutches because I was so. Wasn’t strong enough to lift up my own
body weight. So I had to have a little bell and people had to carry
me everywhere like to the toilet. I couldn’t walk for six weeks I
had to have physio. Therapy like. Do all this stuff. Like. Year sixes
in my village school like. Two year six girls were like. Employed to
look after me at break time. But because I was a captive audience and
I couldn't like go anywhere they used to like. Abuse me they used to
make me eat soap. They used to dress me up in horrible clothes. And
like. Used to make me like wee in front of them. But you know. Life
moves on. I can't really ride a bike. Any more. Too psychologically
scarred mate. Flippin' hell. It was this one. No. No that's a fib.
They're both real I didn't really lose a leg but. Yeah. </span></div>
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